


Aftershocks

by wewriteletters



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Canon Continuation, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Episode 11 Spoilers, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, as a hallucination, injuries, post episode 11, very light on the comfort sorry mal :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wewriteletters/pseuds/wewriteletters
Summary: Martin Whitly couldn't leave his son alone after an ordeal like that.Takes place directly after 1x11. In other words, Malcolm may be safe now, but that doesn't mean the hallucinations stop.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 21
Kudos: 132





	Aftershocks

**Author's Note:**

> WOW WHAT AN EPISODE...I honestly did not see that ending coming and still don't know what to make of Malcolm's actions. So behold, a nearly three thousand work fic that is basically just me thinking out loud. It was definitely very spur of the moment, I didn't really have much of a plot in mind and it probably shows, but I've been having writers block lately (if you're reading Bring Him Home thank you for your patience!!!) and needed to get something out for the show. So here it is.
> 
> Title is from the Next to Normal song because it reminds me of Malcolm and I can't stop listening to that album rip.

It was just like the night his father was arrested.

The lights of police cars lit up the normally quiet upper East side street, red and blue flashing in the reflections of brownstone windows. The colors were mixed with the yellow and white coming from the cameras of the hoard of reporters who had ascended on the scene, barely contained by a police barrier that had blocked off the area in front of the house. Between the still wailing sirens and the equally as loud group of journalist, Malcolm knew that every single one of the neighbors was awake and watching the scene from behind their curtains. It would be the talk of the country club for weeks to come; “did you see all the police at the Whitly house? Well, you remember the last time that happened…”

Malcolm did his best not to dwell on his mother's nosy neighbors, or even the lights and sirens, which were doing nothing for the pounding in his head. There were certainly plenty of other things to focus on.

He was sitting on the back step of an ambulance, a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The paramedics had taken off his shirt so they could put a temporary dressing over his stab wound, so Malcolm did his best to keep the thing covering as much of himself as possible. Which was pretty difficult, considering his left hand was currently immobilized by a splint and his right hand was shaking so much the metallic cover was crinkling in his ears. He had an IV of fluids snaking under the blanket and into his left elbow, but it didn’t feel like they were doing anything to stop his lightheadedness. 

Across the street, he could see Ainsley, sitting on the stoop of their house, a paramedic shining a light in her eyes and asking questions to try and access if she had a question. Jessica sat next to her, squeezing her hand; Malcolm had brushed off her attempts to stay with him, insisting he was fine and she should go be with Ainsley. His mother clearly hadn’t wanted to leave his side, but thankfully she respected his wishes, probably realizing he needed space at the moment.

Space which he had finally gotten, now that the paramedic’s had finished patching up his side and head and doing their best to immobilize his thumb. Malcolm knew he had probably disassociated during that whole ordeal, since he didn’t remember much besides the occasional reminder that he really needed to get to a hospital. His hand needed to be set properly, he needed antibiotics, more fluids and probably a blood transfusion, a doctor needed to check to make sure there wasn’t any internal bleeding in his head or stomach. Malcolm didn’t want to go but he figured he should be grateful they were letting him wait as long as they had before making him get up on the stretcher so they could drive him there. 

Malcolm turned his head downward, not wanting to look at the house-his house-any longer. Watkins had been taken away in handcuffs long ago, possibly while Malcolm had been distracted by the paramedics. It was probably for the best; he didn’t know how he’d act if he saw the man again. 

Malcolm didn’t know where to begin with processing what had just occurred. At the moment, he was simultaneously hyper aware of every sensation, the throbbing in his thumb, the blood that was still sticking to his right hand, how cold he was despite the blanket and the warmed ambulance, yet still overwhelmingly numb. Rage was still pulsated through him, but it was somewhat subdued by sadness chilling him to his core. The two emotions were battling for dominance within, the only thing either was able to accomplish was level the other out, leaving Malcolm in a state where he was either 10 seconds away from punching one of the police officers on the scene or breaking down in tears.

He was almost more concerned with the emotions he wasn’t feeling. Guilt. Regret. Shame. The words flickered through his mind and he knew he should be feeling at least one of them. But he didn’t. If anything, he was still riding out the tail end of an almost pleasurable high, probably caused by the adrenaline and the simple relief that his mother and sister were safe.

‘Or because you enjoyed it.’ His father’s voice was back. Malcolm didn’t know when it came back. Maybe when the paramedics were with him. Maybe when his mother was calling 911, and Ainsley was still holding on to him as the two sat on the edge of the bed. Maybe it never left.

Malcolm was too tired to push it back like he normally would. He was so, so tired of fighting with his mind, with his past, with his father. He wanted to sleep so badly but he was too horrified by what might await him in his dreams to close his eyes for long. He dropped his head down further, wishing he could cover his ears with his hands, as if that would somehow block Doctor Whitly out.

“Go away.” He whispered the two words softly, knowing that no one was paying enough attention to him to notice. And even if they were, it wasn’t like they’d be able to hear him over the sirens. 

Unfortunately, because clearly Malcolm hadn’t been through enough over the past 24 hours, his father appeared right in front of him, looking exactly as he had when Malcolm was still chained to the floor of the tunnel under his house. He felt the pain in his hand increase at the memory. 

“I don’t think I will. A boy needs his father when he’s hurt.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth, sinking his head further down till it was practically inside the blanket. “Go away,” he repeated. 

“Remember when you were six and you sliced open your entire lip because you were running in the house, after your mother told you a million times not too, and you slipped and fell right on top of Great Aunt Sophia’s vase? You were so scared then, you wouldn’t let go of me the entire trip to the ER. I remember how much you cried when the doctor had to pull you off for the stitches and how you immediately crawled back on my lap when she was done.” 

Malcolm stiffened. He did remember it, but the very thought of his father holding him was sending chills through his body. “Clearly a lot has changed since then.” 

Martin laughed, moving so he was even closer to Malcolm. Malcolm tried desperately to focus on something that would get rid of the hallucination, but suddenly he couldn’t see the lights from the camera or hear the police sirens. It was like he was encompassed by a black tunnel, the only thing for miles on end his father standing in front of him. 

“So I take it you don’t want a hug?”

“I want you to leave.” Malcolm couldn’t tell if he was speaking out loud anymore. The pain in his hand and side were slowly fading away. He didn’t even feel the blanket anymore. “Please, just leave.”

“Is that the thanks I get for saving our family?”

“I saved MY family!” The words were sharp and bitter, the anger swirling inside him suddenly bubbling to the surface. “YOU were the reason they were in danger in the first place!” 

“Don’t you think I deserve a little credit? I mean, I was the one that got you to…” He trailed off, but gestured to Malcolm’s left hand with his head. “Ya know.” 

Malcolm wished for nothing more than to just snap out of whatever state he had fallen in to. Or at the very least, let his father be replaced by Gabrielle or Gil or anyone else. Even seeing the Girl in the Box sounded preferable to seeing his father. “Well they’re safe now, so you can go. You did your job.”

“My boy, you know we’ve only just begun.” Martin reached out and laid a hand on Malcolm’s face. He struggled to push his father away, but for whatever reason it didn’t work. All he could do was avert his eyes so at least he wouldn’t have to look at his father's face and the smile that was undoubtedly there “Now, you never responded to what I said.”

“You implied I enjoyed being kidnapped, stabbed, forced to break my own hand to get free only to then have to take down my kidnapper while he tried to kill my family.”

“I did no such thing. I simply said the emotion you’re feeling might actually be-”

“Stop it.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Malcolm. You caught John by surprise; you could have knocked him unconscious, tied him up. Why go to the trouble of dragging over that heavy trunk in your state?”

“I couldn’t-”

“I mean it was awfully clever. Sure, physical torture is great, but it takes a special kind of person to be able to use someone’s childhood fears against them like that. It was honestly brilliant. I do wonder how poor John is going to fair, however.” 

Malcolm snapped his head up. The movement was sudden enough to make Martin drop his hand from Malcolm’s face. The rage that had overtaken him when he fought Watkins was back in full force, all of it directed at his father. 

“John Watkins tried to kill my mother and sister. I don’t have any sympathy for him,” Malcolm growled, his eyes now trained directly at his father as he glowered at him. Martin seemed taken aback at first, but quickly recovered. 

“No sympathy for the eight year old banging on the wood, nails worn down from scratching at the lock, sobbing to be let out? I know you heard him crying, Malcolm. I would think if anyone knew just how terrible flashbacks could be then it would be you-”

“STOP IT! I am not John and I sure as hell am not you. I save people, I saved mother and Ainsley. You and John just kill! You killed innocent people.” Some tears were beginning to break through Malcolm’s rage. It wasn’t fair. None of it was. He had tried his whole life to atone for the sins of his father and still people acted like they were the same. He still got beat up in school, the FBI still fired him, and God only knew how the NYPD was going to react to all of this. And now for once he had actually given in to his father’s voice, actually looked at that part of him and let it take control and everything still felt wrong. “I did what I had to do.”

“But you liked it? My boy, I know you liked it.” The terrifying smile was back on his father’s face. Malcolm felt something twist inside him, the same way he felt when John stabbed him. “The feeling of total control, the power, the screaming and crying. It’s almost cathartic, is it not? After all, John deserved it, didn’t he?”

Malcolm couldn’t respond. He didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of answering “yes, he did deserve it.” John Watkins deserved everything Malcolm did to him and more. His lack of response clearly didn’t matter though. His father could tell exactly what he was thinking.

“It’s okay to admit it, Malcolm. Why, I don’t think anyone could blame you for wanting to take a little revenge. I’d say the box was a bit on the nose, but it was great for a first try!” The enthusiasm in the older man's voice was making Malcolm want to curl in on himself. He felt disgusted, furious, and completely broken. “Next time though, maybe try hitting him a bit harder? Cracking his spine? Finishing what you started when you were ten years old? I mean, in this case, killing John would have been the merciful thing to do…”

“You’re not real.” Malcolm put all his effort into focusing on those three words, repeating them over and over again. He just had to remember that fact. Malcolm couldn’t feel anything or hear anything or see anything besides his father, but if he just remembered that this wasn’t real, it would be okay. It had to be okay.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m real, my boy.” Martin approached him again, this time cupping Malcolm’s entire face in his hands, staring deeply into his son’s eyes. “I’m still here. And now I’m never going away.”

And that’s when Malcolm began screaming. 

\------------------------------

“Malcolm! Malcolm!” 

His eyes snapped open, vertigo overtaking him as his mind tried to process his surroundings. He was still in the ambulance, still covered by the blanket, but now he was now in a half seated position on the stretcher. If it weren’t for the restraint he could feel buckled across his chest, he definitely would have fallen off. Malcolm continued whipping his head around, trying to gasp out a single word. He was certain that his father must still be there, lurking in plain sight. 

“Sweetheart, it’s okay. We’re all going to the hospital now. I called Gil and he’s meeting us there.” The voice was his mothers, Malcolm knew that much. She was bending so she could be at his eye level and he could see Ainsley sitting on the bench behind her. She sported a gauze patch probably identical to the on Malcolm had on his own forehead, but other than that she seemed okay. Physically at least; she and his mother both bore twin expressions of concern as they looked at him.

Malcolm gulped, trying to come back down from his previous mental state. His right hand was shaking violently. “I’m fine…” His eyes went back to Ainsley. Her worried expression was filling with sympathy. Malcolm couldn’t even imagine how he looked at the moment. “Are-are you okay?”

“Yeah, Malcolm, I’m fine. But I don’t think you are.”

“Ainsley, not now.” Jessica tossed the three words over her shoulder, before turning her attention back to Malcolm. She was stroking his hair, clearly wanting to hug her son. “You had a night terror or...something. You must have fallen asleep because when Ainsley and I came over you just started screaming-”

“What!? What was I saying?” The terrifying thought that everyone- the police, the paramedics, the reporters, his family- could have heard him “talking” to his father was enough to make him completely lose any composure he had just regained. Malcolm began hyperventilating, not even waiting for his mother to answer.

“Nothing, sweetheart, you were just...you didn’t say anything.” She leaned even closer to him. “Now, you need to take some deep breaths and try to calm down. I got the paramedics to give us a moment alone once you’d stop and they will not be happy if you pass out.”

Malcolm tried, but it felt like a thousand pound weight was pressing down on his chest. His mother grabbed his right hand, rubbing circles over his knuckles to try and get him to focus on something else. He must have started crying at some point because he was suddenly aware of how wet his cheeks were. The place where his father had touched his face burned like acid.

“Shhh, Malcolm, it’s okay. We’re all safe now.” His mother seemed to be tearing up as well, her green eyes glistening in the harsh overhead lights of the ambulance. “You don’t need to worry about anything else.” 

Malcolm reluctantly nodded as he managed to get in a few deep breaths. His mother looked pleased at his response. “There you are...I’m going to go tell the paramedics we’re ready to go.” She stood up, wiping her eyes quickly as she exited the back of the ambulance. Malcolm turned his head back his sister. 

“I am okay, Ains,” he said. Malcolm tried so hard to focus on her. He was so grateful that she and his mother were both safe. Everything he did was to protect his family. He just needed to remember that.

Ainsley’s concerned expression didn’t leave, but she did give her brother a small smile. “We’ll get through this, Malcolm. We always do.”

Malcolm nodded, turning his head forward again. His father's words were still ringing in his ears, but for now he allowed himself to detach from them. He relaxed, not in comfort, but in the vague numbness that was slowly overtaking his body. He didn’t fight it. It was a welcome reprieve from the thousands of thoughts that had been racing through his mind over the past hour. Thoughts of his father, of stabbing someone, of being stabbed, of being hurt, of being locked in a box while he screamed. 

Of John sobbing, begging to be let out, as Malcolm simply stood over the trunk and listened. 

As Jessica entered the ambulance, followed by two paramedics, Malcolm caught a final glimpse of the street he grew up on. It was beginning to rain, the now wet pavement reflecting the moonlight. Some of the police cars were beginning to leave, although Malcolm could still see yellow crime scene tape fluttering over the doorway of the Whitly home like a ribbon in the wind. The rows of beautiful, historic houses, still stood tall and grand, their picturesque fronts hiding the dark secrets that lurked below. 

His father was nowhere to be seen.

**Author's Note:**

> I know realistically the paramedics probably would have taken Malcolm (and Ainsley for that matter) straight to the hospital but if the show can have Martin in a cell that looks like more like a professors study I will allow myself to have Malcolm sitting in the back of an ambulance and being sad for the Ambiance (tm). Thanks for reading and check out my Prodigal Son tumblr @ malclombright if you want to scream with me about Fearl Malcolm.


End file.
